


Der Anfang vom Ende

by SolitaryViolence



Series: Wenn du mich brauchst, komm ich zu dir [4]
Category: Elisabeth - Levay/Kunze, Historical RPF
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Crying, Dancing, F/M, Hugging, I couldn't get a definite answer as to whether or not Mary was shot but she's shot here, M/M, Mental Anguish, Murder, Omniscient Narrator, Possible historical inaccuracy, Pre-Suicide, Unhealthy Relationships, dancing could be a metaphor for sex if you want but keep in mind Rudolf's off his face, hence possible inaccuracy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-27
Updated: 2020-07-27
Packaged: 2021-03-06 01:54:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 936
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25555426
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SolitaryViolence/pseuds/SolitaryViolence
Summary: He says nothing as you weep. Pity festers within, and Death himself very nearly chokes up. After all, it’s only natural to feel sad, for this is the beginning of the end.
Relationships: Rudolf von Österreich-Ungarn | Rudolf Crown Prince of Austria/Der Tod | Death (Elisabeth), Rudolf von Österreich-Ungarn/Marie Alexandrine von Vetsera
Series: Wenn du mich brauchst, komm ich zu dir [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1636456
Kudos: 10





	Der Anfang vom Ende

**Author's Note:**

> Yikes, I haven't updated this series since April! A thousand apologies and all that, I wanted to focus on my longfic for a little while, but now I've lost all motivation to write that, I've come crawling back to this fandom.
> 
> I'm gonna blubber like a baby when I write Rudolf's death scene...ah, it won't be long now. Get your tissues ready when you see the next update! T_T

Oh, dear. You _have_ made a rather grisly mess, haven’t you?

Why can’t you own up to your iniquity? Why can’t you concentrate on that mangled corpse splayed out before you upon the bitter, marbled floor?

Go on, Rudolf, behold your work. Look into those glazed-over, fear-filled eyes and mourn your beloved.

You can’t, can you?

What a rotten shame. Did you ever care for her at all?

Poor, darling little Mary. She was so young, so trusting, so wet behind the ears.

You robbed that unsuspecting child of her precious life without so much as a second thought. You robbed a family of their cherished daughter because you were afraid to do this alone.

Now that she has departed this wretched world, what have you to lose?

Your kingdom? Don’t make me laugh! You never wanted to be Kaiser, did you? No, you never have been the domineering sort. You’re the sort that begs and begs and begs and when you receive you luxuriate in ephemeral ecstasy, letting your shuddering form sink deep down into a boundless ocean of orgasmic overindulgence until the syrupy water fills your starved lungs and you asphyxiate. You eagerly throw yourself into Death’s carnal caress; he forcefully bestrides you, and you choke under his merciless hold. He smothers you in sin, and you take every last morsel of sacrilegious satisfaction you can attain.

He’s different, isn’t he? He _chose_ you because he wants you and you alone. At least, that’s what you think, ignorant prince.

You’ve wanted him too, have you not? Indeed, this has been on your mind for years; so very carefully have you planned out your final moments. And yet, still, you falter, idly perched upon that bed, your mind a muddled macédoine. You feel him now, don’t you? When the air chills, you know he’s nearby.

It shan’t be long.

Oh my, what’s this? Having second thoughts, are we? I see you’re following in your little leman’s clumsy footsteps. How amusing.

We all know how she ended up.

“My friend,” your shaky voice croaks out. Your equally tremulous hands grip that pistol so tightly, the divine weapon which so easily claimed pretty Mary’s life mere hours ago. Pitiful creature. She was lovestruck, ensnarled within your thinly-veiled web of lies. She should have run whilst she had the chance. She should have run far, far away from your accursed dwellings. You should have never set your leering eye upon that guileless girl.  
“My dear prince,” he murmurs. Not once before have you ever heard him sound so _ravenous_.  
“I…” you begin before you realise you aren’t quite sure what to say. Cat got your tongue, huh?  
“Come now, my little one,” he says as you hearken to his approaching footsteps, “give yourself over to me,” he purrs with a sick yet seductive edge to his silken voice. “It’s time.”  
“Mary...oh, God, what have I done?” you drawl in your drunken haze. My, could this be remorse?  
“ _Rudolf_...” he coos as he lays a hand upon your shoulder, taking you aback, for seldom does he use your name, “...you needn’t fight any longer,” he continues. “Has this not gone on far too long?”

You look up at him, believing, foolishly, that you’re averting your eyes from your imminent fate. Oh, naïve boy, how wrong you are. What is it your lot call this kind of scenario, again? Oh, of course! A _fait accompli_. Your fabled demise was preordained from the very second you were begotten, my dear.

His hungry, beguiling eyes stare right back, as icy as ever as they transfix through your bloodied garbs and penetrate deep into your blackened soul. A shiver dances its way down your chilled spine, and for a moment you feel…

Lust?

How human. How utterly, pathetically human!

Ah, but this should come as no surprise. Alcohol has always accelerated these obscene little urges of yours.

“I don’t…” you mutter, trailing off. Whirling thoughts swamp your senses, subduing your sentence.  
“Little prince,” Death croons, drawing nearer, “why do you deny yourself relief?” he questions as he strokes your left cheek. “I can feel your hurt.”  
“...One last time,” you insinuate, slurring out words barely intelligible.  
“Hm?” he hums, raising a blond eyebrow as his fingers wander across your jawline.  
“Dance with me,” you plead, meeting his gaze.

Death freezes. He looks contemplative. Then, he cocks his head. He looks confused. And then, he smiles.

He looks content.

Steadily, your beatific beau helps you up. Feeling so faint, you almost collapse, but his protective arms keep you on your feet. It isn’t long before you’re melting into his embrace; you’re ensconced against his chest, and he’s running his gloved digits through your chestnut-coloured locks, and you’re breathing in his scent and, oh, this is all so wonderfully _fucked_ , isn’t it? Slowly - very, very slowly - he leads you in dance, tentatively guiding you away from the mindless girl his angels claimed not long ago. She wasn’t worthy of his kiss. But, you?

Oh, sweet prince, you have no idea how badly he longs to feel your lips against his. It's a mutual yearning, is it not?

Even as fuddled as you are, you can recognise the waltz. His steps are elegant and feathery; au contraire, you gracelessly stagger along, wrapping your arms around his waist as you press your face against his shoulder in a fatuous attempt to hide your tears.

He says nothing as you weep. Pity festers within, and Death himself very nearly chokes up. After all, it’s only natural to feel sad, for this is the beginning of the end.


End file.
